讀點好英文:Flowery Tuscany 如花的托斯卡納

Flowery Tuscany 如花的托斯卡納

D. H. Lawrence

North of the Alps, the everlasting winter is interrupted by summers that struggle and soon yield; south of the Alps, the everlasting summer is interrupted by spasmodic and spiteful winters that never get a real hold, but that are mean and dogged. The in between, in either case, is just as it may be. But the lands of the sun are south of the Alps, forever.

In the morning, the sun shines strong on the horizontal green cloud-puffs of the pines, the sky is clear and full of life, the water runs hastily, still browned by the last juice of crushed olives. And there the earth's bowl of crocuses is amazing. You cannot believe that the flowers are really still. They are open with such delight, and their pistil is so red-orange, and they are so many, all reaching out wide and marvellous, that it suggests a perfect ecstasy of radiant, thronging movement, lit-up violet and orange, and surging in some invisible rhythm of concerted, delightful movement. You cannot believe they do not move, and make some sort of crystalline sound of delight. If you sit still and watch, you begin to move with them, like moving with the stars, and you feel the sound of their radiance. All the little cells of the flowers must be leaping with flowery life and utterance.

And now that it is March, there is a rush of flowers. Down by the other stream, which turns sideways to the sun, and tangles the brier and bramble, down where the hellebore has stood so wan and dignified all winter, there are now white tufts of primroses, suddenly come. Among the tangle and near the water-lip, tufts and bunches of primroses, in abundance. Yet they look more wan, more pallid, more flimsy than English primroses. They lack some of the full wonder of the northern flowers. One tends to overlook them, to turn to the great, solemn-faced purple violets that rear up from the bank, and above all, to the wonderful little towers of the grape hyacinth.

This is the time, in March, when the sloe is white and misty in the hedge-tangle by the stream, and on the slope of land the peach tree stands pink and alone. The almond blossom, silvery pink, is passing, but the peach, deep-toned, bluey, not at all ethereal this reveals itself like flesh, and the trees are like isolated individuals, the peach and the apricot. It is so conspicuous and so individual, that pink among the coming green of spring, because the first flowers that emerge from winter seem always white or yellow or purple. Now the celandines are out, and along the edges of the podere, the big, sturdy, black-purple anemones, with black hearts.

The daisies are out too, in sheets, and they too red-mouthed. The first ones are big and handsome. But as March goes on, they dwindle to bright little things, like tiny buttons, clouds of them together. That means summer is nearly here.

In some places there are odd yellow tulips, slender, spiky and Chinese-looking. They are very lovely, pricking out their dulled yellow in slim spikes. But they too soon lean, expand beyond themselves, and are gone like an illusion. And when the tulips are gone, there is a moment's pause, before summer. Summer is the next move.

In the pause towards the end of April, when the flowers seem to hesitate, the leaves make up their minds to come out. For sometime, at the very ends of the bare boughs of fig trees, spurts of pure green have been burning like little cloven tongues of green fire vivid on the tips of the candelabrum. Now these spurts of green spread out, and begin to take the shape of hands, feeling for the air of summer. And tiny green figs are below them, like glands on the throat of a goat.

Now the aspens on the hill are all remarkable with the translucent membranes of blood-veined leaves. They are gold-brown, but not like autumn, rather like thin wings bats when like birds—call them birds—they wheel in clouds against the setting sun, and the sun glows through the stretched membrane of their wings, as through thin, brown-red stained glass. This is the red sap of summer, not the red dust of autumn.

The cherry tree is something the same, but more sturdy. Now, in the last week of April, the cherry blossom is still white, but waning and passing away: it is late this year, and the leaves are clustering thick and softly copper in their dark blood-filled glow. It is queer about fruit trees in this district. The pear and the peach were out together. But now the pear tree is a lovely thick softness of new and glossy green, vivid with a tender fullness of apple-green leaves, gleaming among all the other green of the landscape, the half-high wheat, emerald, and the grey olive, half-invisible, the browning green of the dark cypress, the black of the evergreen oak, the rolling of the heavy green puffs of the stone-pines, the flimsy green of small peach and almond trees, the sturdy young green of horse-chestnut. So many greens, all in flakes and shelves and tilted tables and round shoulders and plumes and shaggles and uprisen bushes, of greens and greens, sometimes blindingly brilliant at evening, when the landscape looks as if it were on fire from inside, with greenness and with gold.

In the wood, the scrub-oak is only just coming uncrumpled, and the pines keep their hold on winter. They are wintry things, stone-pines. At Christmas, their heavy green clouds are richly beautiful. When the cypresses rise their tall and naked bodies of dark green, and the osiers are vivid red-orange, on the still blue air, and the land is lavender; then, in mid-winter, the landscape is most beautiful in colour, surging with colour.

Not that this week is flowerless. But the flowers are a little lonely things, here and there: the early purple orchid, ruddy and very much alive, you come across occasionally, then the little groups of bee-orchids, with their ragged concerted indifference to their appearance. Also there are the huge bud-spikes of the stout, thickflow-ering pink orchid, huge buds like fat ears of wheat, hard-purple, and splendid. But already odd grains of the wheat-ear are open, and out of the purple hangs the dell-cate pink rag of floweret. Also mere are very lovely and choice cream-clouted orchids with brown spots on the long and delicate lip. These grow in the more moist places, and have exotic tender spikes, very rare-seeming. Another orchild is a little pretty yellow one.

By May, the nightingale will sing an unbroken song, and the discreet barely audible Tuscan cuckoo will be a little more audible. Then the lovely pale-lilac irises will come out in all their showering abundance of tender, proud, spiky bloom, till the air will gleam with mauve, and a new crystalline lightness will be everywhere. There will be tufts of iris everywhere, arising up proud and tender. When the rose-coloured wild gladiolus is mingled in the corn, and the love-in-the-mist opens blue: in May and June, before the corn is cut. But as yet is neither May nor June, but the end of April, the pause between spring and summer, the nightingale singing uninterrupted, the bean-flowers dying in the bean-fields, the bean-perfume passing with spring, the little birds hatching in the nests, the olives pruned, and the vines, the last bit of late ploughing finished, and not much work to hand, now, not until the peas are ready to pick, in another two weeks or so.

So the change, the endless and rapid change. In the sunny countries, the change seems more vivid, and more complete than in the grey countries. In the grey countries, there is a grey or dark permanency, over whose surface passes change ephemeral, leaving no real mark.

But in the sunny countries, change is the reality and permanence is artificial and a condition of imprisonment. Hence, to the northerner, the phenomenal world is essentially tragical, because it is temporal and must cease to exist. Its very existence implies ceasing to exist, and this is the root of the feeling of tragedy. But to the southerner, the sun is so dominant that shadow, or dark, is only merely relative: merely the result of something getting between one and the sun.

In the human race, the one thing that is always there is the shining sun, and dark shadow is an accident of intervention. For my part, if the sun always shines, and always will shine, in spite of millions of clouds of words. In the sunshine, even death is sunny. And there is no end to the sunshine.

That is why the rapid change of the Tuscan spring is utterly free, for me, of any senses of tragedy. The sun always shines. It is our fault if we don't think so.

如花的托斯卡納

［英］D·H·勞倫斯

在阿爾卑斯山的北面，持續(xù)的冬天會受到夏季的頑強入侵，但夏天很快屈服了。而其南面，夏季會被間歇性的、充滿敵意的寒冬襲擾，但冬天永遠也不能真正占了上風。在南北兩者之間，任何一種情況都有可能發(fā)生。但是，陽光普照的地方，永遠都是阿爾卑斯山的南面。

清晨，陽光強烈地照射在地平線上松樹團團的綠霧上，天空清新，充滿了生機。河水急匆匆地流著，直到被最后一些壓碎的橄欖汁染成棕色。遍地的番紅花更是令人詫異不已。你不會相信這些花是靜止的。它們如此歡快地綻放，雌蕊是那樣的橘紅。不計其數(shù)的花朵，競相開放，爭奇斗艷，讓人如癡如醉?；ǘ鋫凈骠嫫鹞瑁敲髁疗饋淼淖仙统壬纳{，合著無形的美妙節(jié)奏歡快地擺動。你不得不相信它們在動，而且發(fā)出了水晶般的歡快聲。如果你是坐著欣賞花朵，你就會不由自主地隨著它們舞動，那樣的情形就好像跟著星星走一樣。當然，你還會聽到花朵們的歡快聲。花的每一個小細胞都跳躍著絢麗的生命和思想。

現(xiàn)在正是三月，也是花兒競相開放的時節(jié)。在其他一些朝太陽方向流動的溪流邊，荊棘灌木交錯，菟葵無助而不屈地對抗冬天，一叢叢白色的櫻草花出乎意料地生長著。叢叢的櫻草花占滿了雜亂的灌木叢和溪水的拐角處。可它們比菟葵無助，更加蒼白，比英格蘭的櫻草花單薄許多。櫻草花不像北面的花朵那樣讓人驚奇。人們往往會注意不到它，而是會被長在河岸邊莊嚴而美麗的紫羅蘭所吸引，會更愿意欣賞那些深紫色的風信子小花塔。

三月，剛好是溪邊灌木亂叢中白色的野李花朦朦朧朧、粉紅的桃樹獨自站立在山坡的時節(jié)。銀粉色的杏花已漸漸褪去，桃樹裹著深深的藍，一點也不飄逸，卻是本來面目，而桃樹與杏樹，看起來就像毫不相干的個體。綠意盎然的春天里，桃樹的粉色是如此別致。因為最先從冬天開出來的花，通?？雌饋矶际前咨螯S色的或紫色的。白屈菜也冒出頭來了。在湖邊你可以發(fā)現(xiàn)高大強壯，黑色花蕊的銀蓮花。

雛菊穿著紅色的衣服成群地跑出來，開始的時候，它們長得又大又漂亮?？墒菨u漸地，進入三月中下旬，花就變成了光鮮的小東西，像小小的紐扣聚在一起。這預示著夏天的來臨。

你還可以在一些地方，看到一些修長、帶穗的黃色郁金香。在細長的穗上嵌著光亮的黃色，十分惹人喜愛。不過，它們也很快變得傾斜，然后虛弱起來，仿佛幻覺一樣消失得無影無蹤。

郁金香離開以后，在夏天前，花兒們都短暫地歇息了一下。夏天即將到來。

寂靜的四月底，在花兒們躊躇不定的時候，葉子們一股腦地跑了出來。一時間，純凈的綠色在無花果的樹枝尖冒出，好像燭臺頂那生動的綠色小火舌頭一樣在燃燒。現(xiàn)在，這團綠焰伸展開來，變成小手的樣子，觸摸著夏天的氣息。小小的綠色無花果像一只山羊喉嚨的腺附下面。

現(xiàn)在，山坡上白楊的葉子上有一層半透明薄膜的葉脈，顯得格外引人注目。與秋天不同，葉子是金棕色的，像是薄翼的蝙蝠，如同鳥兒一樣——我們暫時就叫它們鳥吧——在落日的余暉中，葉子在云層里涌動，太陽照射在這薄翼拉緊似的薄膜上，仿佛透過棕紅色的彩繪玻璃。這是夏天里樹葉旺盛時所特有的紅色樹液，并不意味著秋天的紅塵。

櫻桃樹和白楊差不多，只是更加頑強?，F(xiàn)在都已是四月的最后一個星期，白色的櫻桃花依然綻放，可已經漸漸虛弱，即將逝去。今年的時節(jié)晚了，樹葉團團緊簇，鮮紅的光亮中揮灑著輕柔的銅色。這個地方的果樹十分不同尋常，梨花和桃花會在同一時節(jié)開放。不過，現(xiàn)在這里有還未伸長的麥子，翠綠色的橄欖，柏樹所特有的棕綠，長青橡樹的黑色，石松濃重的綠色，小桃樹和杏樹脆弱的綠色，七葉樹強壯的新綠。而在這所有的綠色中，梨樹清新光亮的綠色是可愛的、濃密的、輕柔的，像蘋果綠色葉子柔和的飽滿一樣鮮明。在這綠色的海洋中，綠色一片一片的，一層一層的，像斜斜的一塊板，像圓圓的肩膀，又像羽毛，像矮樹叢，像挺直的灌木。有時在夜晚，從外面向綠色里望去，仿佛綠色帶著綠色、帶著金色在里面燃燒，顯得光彩奪目。

在森林里，矮灌木即將倒下，而松樹在冬天里則穩(wěn)穩(wěn)地保持自己的站姿。冬天是最適宜石松生長的季節(jié)。一到圣誕節(jié)的時候，石松團團的深綠色更顯得婀娜多姿。當柏樹裸露地顯示出自己高高的、墨綠色的身軀時，柳樹仍然在藍色的空氣中展現(xiàn)著自己活潑的鮮橙色。大地染上淡紫色的時候，濃冬時節(jié)就到了。這兒將成為顏色的世界，顏色才是最美的風景。

當然，這一個星期還會有花的足跡，但這時候的花兒成了孤獨的小東西，四處分散。你會在不經意間發(fā)現(xiàn)它們的足跡：提前出來的紫蘭花，紅潤而有生命力；成群結隊的蜜蜂蘭，它們對自身的外表，都顯露出刻意的、不屑的神情。當然，也少不了頂著巨大的花苞穗，長滿茂密花兒的強壯的粉紅蘭花，蘭花那巨大的花苞穗如同飽滿的麥穗一樣，配上耀眼的紫色，讓人覺得完美無缺。但零星的麥穗已經開花了，在紫色中旋著一幅由嬌嫩小花編織成的精致花布。還有那些非?？蓯鄣摹⒚咨奶m花，在它們的細長花蕊上有些棕色斑點。蘭花喜歡在較潮濕的地方生長，因此它奇異柔和的穗是不常見的。其他的蘭花都是小小的花形，漂亮的黃色。

五月一到，夜鶯便不間斷地唱著一首歌。這時候，小心翼翼的托斯卡納杜鵑也會唱出平日里聽不到的歌。接著，淺淡紫色的丁香花大量地出現(xiàn)，展示著它們柔嫩、穗狀的花，直到空氣中露出紫紅，清澈透明的輕柔四處飄蕩。世界將變成一叢叢蝴蝶花的天下，它們得意而柔嫩地昂起頭。五六月，谷物還沒收割的時候，在野外，玫瑰色的唐菖蒲就會混合在谷物中。而黑種草開著藍色的花朵。但現(xiàn)在還沒到五月或六月——只是四月末，春夏之間的間歇。在這個時節(jié)里，夜鶯不停地歌唱；豆地里的豆花正在凋謝；豆的芳香正隨著春天一起逝去；小鳥在巢里成長；橄欖已被修剪；葡萄已經過了最后的耕種時間；兩個星期后豌豆成熟之前，沒有多少活要做。

這樣才是變化，永不停息的快速變化。在陽光照耀的地方，變化似乎更顯著，比在昏暗地帶更徹底。而在沒有陽光的地方，是一成不變的灰暗和陰暗。變化只是短暫的事，不會留下任何記號。

然而，對于生活在陽光地帶的人，卻是不同的概念。變化對他們來說就是現(xiàn)實，永久是人創(chuàng)造的，是一種囚禁。因此，生活在北面的人認為，變化中的世界實際上是悲慘的，因為世界只是短暫的，注定消逝的。世界的存在意味著自己的結束，這就是傷感本身。而生活在南面的人，對他們來說，陽光具有決定性的作用，陰影或黑暗不過是相關聯(lián)的事物——只是在人和太陽之間才會出現(xiàn)的東西。

對于人類來說，有一件事是千真萬確的，那就是在這個世界上，僅有一個發(fā)光的太陽，黑色的影子不過是一個干擾的意外罷了。而在我看來，盡管爭議紛紛，但太陽一直光芒四射，也將永遠光芒四射。在陽光下，即便死亡也是充滿陽光的。陽光沒有終點。

托斯卡納的春天飛快地流逝，而我沒有感到一絲的悲慘。這就是原因所在。太陽永遠在照耀。如果不這樣想，那就是我們的責任了。

實戰(zhàn)提升

Practising & Exercise

導讀

D·H·勞倫斯（D.H. Lawrence），英國詩人、小說家、散文家。D·H·勞倫斯是20世紀英國最獨特也是最有爭議的作家，被稱為“英國文學史上最偉大的人物之一”。勞倫斯的書語言優(yōu)美、氣勢恢宏，但除了《虹》在末尾勾勒出一幅彩虹似的帶著希望的遠景以外，其余的書都顯得色調暗淡、冷漠，構成了一種獨特的勞倫斯式的色彩。

核心單詞

spasmodic [sp?z?m?dik] adj. 抽筋的；持續(xù)的

hastily [?heistili] adv. 匆忙地，倉促地

ecstasy [?ekst?si] n. 狂喜；出神

tuft [t?ft] n. 一簇，一束

dwindle [?dwindl] v. 漸漸減少；變小

illusion [i?lu???n] n. 錯覺，幻覺

sturdy [?st??di] adj. 健壯的，結實的

ephemeral [i?fem?r?l] adj. 僅有一日生命的；短暫的

utterly [??t?li] adv. 完全地；徹底地；十足地

翻譯

All the little cells of the flowers must be leaping with flowery life and utterance.

In the human race, the one thing that is always there is the shining sun, and dark shadow is an accident of intervention.